


Retrouvailles

by singtome



Series: Polaris [5]
Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Being Walked In On, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, It's Newt's birthday and everyone's here to party, M/M, Minho is awesome, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Newt is a flirty drunk, Sexual Humor, Swearing, Thomas is a ball of anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-20
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-21 17:09:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13745523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singtome/pseuds/singtome
Summary: “It occurs to him at that moment, leant against the wall and ballet dancing on the edge of hysteria, that Thomas never asked Newt what he wanted for his birthday.”(Or: Everyone throws Newt a birthday party and feelings manifest.)





	Retrouvailles

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact this originally started out as a holiday fic but then I never finished it so i tweaked it into this!
> 
> Takes place after Polaris and before Fahrenheit.
> 
> Please note: this will probably be very confusing if you haven't read part 1 of this series.

****

 

_Retrouvailles: [French. meaning: rediscovery] The joy of reuniting with someone after a long separation._

 

 

With something between a growl of frustration and a cry for help, Thomas throws the most recent batch of cake straight into the trash. Two hands bracing the counter, Thomas closes his eyes and takes five slow, steady breaths, until he can function like a human being who isn’t fantasising about hauling his entire kitchen out the window. The knob of the cabinet door is cool where it digs into his forehead, grounding in a strange way. It’s doing absolutely nothing to aid a growing headache he’s felt since 7 am this morning, though. Bracing himself, Thomas turns to look at the time flashing in bright blue from the microwave.

He immediately wishes he hadn’t.

It is currently 6:15 in the evening. Guests are expected in a little more than an hour, and he has so far overcooked or straight up burnt three – check, _three_ – batches of birthday cake. He does not have time for this.

80s Pop classics blast through the speakers in the living room, courtesy of Chuck, coupled with multi-chrome lights that have been strung from wall to ceiling randomly that blink lazily at him out of the corner of his eye. The entire scene is a dissociative pot of despair and anxiety mixed with glitter and bright holographic _Happy Birthday_ sighs.

Specifically, they read _Happy 50 th Birthday_, because the store had been out of literally anything else, and Minho came over this morning to meticulously tape 2s over all of them in with yellow sticky notes.

His kitchen smells of burning sugar.  

Beside him and donned in a bright green cone hat like the world’s most unhelpful gnome, is Minho, eyes fixed upon his phone where his fingers tap at the screen at lightning speed, not sparing a look up at his best friend as he says, “You sure you don’t want me to run over and grab the cake that’s in my fridge?”

Unimpressed and on edge, Thomas settles him with the steeliest glare he can manage, which, from experience, is usually enough to send most people scampering away with their tails between their legs. Minho is less than intimidated.

“Really,” he says, “It’s chocolate sponge. Baked fresh two days ago and stocked in a freezer until I picked it up this morning. Newt loves chocolate.”

Thomas sighs and leans against the island and fiddles with the oven mitts, restlessly. His head hurts. He counts to ten in Spanish once before replying, “Newt hates chocolate. _You_ love chocolate.”

Minho stares into space, frowning. “Oh yeah,” he murmurs, “Shit, yeah, he does. What did I get that cake for?”

“If you’re going to insist on being here,” Thomas snipes, slamming the oven mitts down on the counter, “Can you at least be a little helpful?”

Minho sighs and drops his phone. Levelling Thomas with an almost pitying smile, he says in a sugary sweet tone, “Honey, the last time I offered my help you threatened to, and I quote –” Minho clears his throat and recites in a mock imitation of Thomas’ voice, three octaves higher than it should be – “If you touch a single thing in this kitchen I will cut off your fingers and cook them as a side dish.”

Thomas frowns, a sliver of shame penetrating his iron hard form, “When did I say that?”

“About two cakes ago,” Minho shrugs and turns back to his phone, Thomas hears the faint sounds of laser beams and explosions, “Besides, I am helping. I’m providing moral support along with my general presence. Which is, no argument, the greatest gift of all. You’re very welcome. “

Thomas rolls his eyes and turns to the fridge for the fourth time today. Shaking his head as he hip-checks the door closed, he says, “How am I going to get this done in an hour?”

“The real question here, Tommy,” Minho pipes in, “is why the hell didn’t you just ask Frypan to bake a damn cake?”

Thomas nearly groans, “I did ask him and he said no.” Thomas begins mixing the batter, his insides shrivelling up a little, “He said he has a date.”

“What?” Minho barks in surprise, “With _who?_ ” 

“How the heck should I know? Look just,” Thomas sighs, dropping the whisk and turning back to the fridge, pulling out the fresh produce bag he had prepared the night before and depositing them in front of Minho, “Can you make a salad. Please?”

Minho smiles at him, genuine, the silver pom-pom atop his hat shimmers as it moves with the air conditioning, and stands. While Minho busies himself with Salad Duty Thomas gets to work on the last – hopefully last, please – batch of cake. He’s just pushing it all into the oven when Chuck blunders down the stairs in a way that is only talent to sixteen-year-old boys, whistling to the tune of _Girls just want to have fun,_ stops short in the hall, lips pursed and eyes frowning at the spectacle that is the kitchen.

“The hell happened in here?” He asks, wearily, as if not completely sure he wants to know the answer.

“Cakepocalypse,” is Minho’s cheery response, chopping tomatoes.

Chuck seems content enough to accept this as an explanation and carries on his way to the front door. Thomas watches him slip on his shoes, not a care to the laces before reaching for his jacket, and tries not to yell, “Where are you going?”

Chuck buttons his coat and offers simply, “Out. I’ll be back in a bit, try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Thomas has to crane his neck to see him, “Did you clean the living room like I asked?”

Chuck’s back is to them but Thomas can practically hear him rolls his eyes, “Yes, _mom_ , and I locked the pool, too, so no one’ll wander in there, three sheets to the wind, _again_.”

He says the last bit with a pointed look toward Minho, who raises his hands in surrender, knife and all. Chuck is gone the next second, the front door slamming shut in the frosty wind. Thomas winces. Minho snickers and covers it with a polite cough.

He’s trying to get better at that – not mothering Chuck. He really is. It’s just … _hard_ sometimes, especially on days where all he sees when he looks at Chuck sitting in the living room, early morning light shining on him and catching on rosy, freckled cheeks and caramel curls, is a little boy with tears in his eyes as he stands on Thomas’ front porch and stammers out that he doesn’t know where his mom has gone, shivering at the new the ice age that decided to assault them overnight.

The one who couldn’t sleep anywhere but Thomas’ bed for _months_ in fear that he would disappear right before his eyes, too, who still sometimes sneaks into Thomas’ room in the middle of the night to camp out on his rug.

The _chop chop chop_ of the knife hitting the wooden cutting board gently pulls Thomas from his thoughts, and when he looks up and sees Minho looking at him, his brow furrowed in that familiar concerned way which makes Thomas’ insides fill with acid-like guilt. His friend quickly turns his attention forward as if focusing on making the best damn salad the world has ever witnessed.

Thomas rubs at his wrist, thumb grazing over the faint bump.

Then, snarky as if nothing happened, Minho comments, “Make sure you actually set the timer this time, yeah?” and the spell is broken.

Thomas has to fight off the childish urge to stamp his foot with every fibre of his being, “I did set the timer! Every time. And it didn’t go off. Every. Time.”

Because the world hates Thomas reasonably enough on an average day, but it apparently hates him more on Newt’s birthday.

Minho holds his palms up in surrender. “Look, man, you just need to relax,” he says, “and I’d ask you why you’re so nervous but I think I might already know the answer to that …” and then he turns and offers Thomas a sly grin, eyebrows wagging suggestively, eyes twinkling in mischief. Thomas contemplates strangling himself with a dishtowel.

Because, well.

He isn’t _wrong_.

A short while ago it was decided that Newt would have a party to celebrate his 20th birthday (decided by Sonya, much to Newt’s protest) and since Thomas’ house is the largest and most accommodating he would be the one to host.

Thomas not only didn’t get a say in everyone turning up at his house – the house that he has trouble being in for an extended period of time on a normal day, packed with people talking and laughing and eating and dancing and existing – he felt obligated to say yes.

Because it’s Newt.

So.

Yeah.

Here he is.

He and Newt are … fine. They’re okay. They’re doing well considering they hated each other not two months ago.

(Well, Newt hated _him_. Thomas knows he could never hate Newt, not completely, not ever, even when it felt like his world was falling apart and he wanted to blame it all on Newt, to yell and scream and shout until he convinced himself he could go the rest of his life without ever laying his eyes on him again.

The crushing reality of that was not kind.)

But they’ve been doing _good_ , recently. He’d even go so far as to say they’re doing great. They are friends – Which is a concept in itself – and friends hold birthday parties at their houses and have normal friendly, happy conversations.

Like _friends_.

(Secretly, the thought makes Thomas want to sprout flowers from his fingers and toes while simultaneously stick his head in the oven and turn it all the way up to 360F.)

Thomas grumbles under his breath, muttering something akin to a dying squirrel’s rendition of “Shut up,” and Minho only shrugs in surrender. The corner of his mouth still quirks.

Wrapping up the finished salad and storing it safely in the fridge for later, they both set alarms on their phones before gracelessly collapsing on the couch. Thomas surrenders himself to a moment’s peace before the guests arrive, back cracking satisfyingly, but this unfortunately lasts all of a second once he realises he’s still wearing the shirt he slept in, now covered in egg and flower, and has to rush upstairs to change. 

Tugging the ribbed sweater over his head messes up the nest atop his head even more, having to trudge to the bathroom to fix it. Stealing a glance at himself in the mirror Thomas bites down a wince. His hair is a disaster with no hope of taming, his lips are chapped and his eyes look the kind of tired where he’s just spent five hours of his life remaking a batch of cake over and over again. He looks worn-out, and stressed, and awful, and he thinks maybe, okay, _maybe_ Minho can run the show on his behalf and he can just stay up here and never come down. Ever. Minho would be cool with that, right?

That way he will never have to see Newt and interact with him, and all the hundreds of ways that he could possibly embarrass himself or Newt would never have a possibility of coming true. He could pretend something came up and call Newt later tonight to wish him a happy birthday. He won’t have to look Newt in the eye and feel _so many things_ all at once, and, and maybe he can just go one night without the urge crawling up inside him so hard to just reach out and –

Thomas groans. Slowly, he turns on the tap and splashes icy cold water on his face, and tells himself to calm down. That everything will be alright, nothing he can do today or tomorrow or, god forbid, the next day can possibly make Newt dislike him more. 

He can do this. He’s fine.

 

 

Downstairs, the doorbell rings.

He is not fine.

He is extremely fucked.

 

 

Newt’s birthday arrives on a Wednesday, the coldest day of the week. Thomas took extra care to set the heating the night before so that the house would be extra toasty come morning, and lit the fire in the living room for added effect.

Taking one last look in the mirror Thomas listens to the sounds of Minho letting people in and accepts that this is as good as it is going to get and begins to make his way down the stairs. Teresa and Brenda are the first ones through the door. The first thing he sees is Teresa’s mortified expression and understands why a second later when he catches sight of Brenda, or, rather, what she is holding, which is a life-sized blow up doll.

Minho finds this absolutely hilarious. Thomas, horrified at the concept of _anyone_ , let alone Newt or even Chuck for that matter, seeing it, does not.

“Where did you get that?” He all but screeches.

Brenda beams like she’s won the biggest prize in the world, adjusting her hold on the doll but doing absolutely nothing to obscure its nether regions, “You don’t like it?”

“This isn’t a fucking Hens night, Brenda, _christ_.”

They engage in some both metaphorical and non-metaphorical back and forth over the doll until, finally, Thomas snatches it away and makes off down the hall with Brenda yelling “ _You’re no fun!”_ at his retreating back. Snatching the keys to the pool room, Thomas kicks it into the room where no one will see, instantly locking the door behind him.

Brenda and Minho boo when he returns. Teresa graciously offers him an apologetic wince and a kiss on the cheek.

Time passes and more people arrive while the retro tunes grow in obnoxious intensity. The fourth and final batch of cake survives, thank fuck, both Minho and Thomas bolting for the oven when their alarms had simultaneously gone off, earning strange looks from everyone in the room, and now Thomas hears a bellowed laugh from the doorway, all too familiar, and he looks over.

Newt is standing in the doorway and he –

He looks _good_. Really good, wearing a deep red shirt that compliments hair and eyes perfectly, fitted pants which probably exist for the sole purpose of torturing Thomas, and he’s smiling. He’s laughing at something someone said – Thomas isn’t sure who – and suddenly Newt’s eyes are roving the room, searching and searching until finally they land on Thomas stood frozen in his tracks, his eyes lighting up.

His cheeks and nose are flushed from the cold and Thomas has that tight feeling in his chest, the one that he gets right before he is about to cry. 

A smile beams across Newt’s face and Thomas feels his legs move on their own accord as if beckoned. He’s rubbing his hands together for warmth, laughing at some joke Minho’s made when Thomas reaches the small group in the mudroom. Newt’s eyes had been darting back and forth from Minho to Thomas, casually, but now turns his attention front and centre.

“Hello,” Newt says, voice soft in the way that turns his insides upside down.

“Hey,” Thomas returns, smiling briefly at Sonya who’s turned to hang both their coats on a hook. She winks in passing as she makes her way into the house, Minho tailing her. Brenda has engrossed everyone in some wild story in the living room, keeping their attention, and Thomas estimates he has a good thirty seconds to a minute before everyone notices that Sonya is now here, therefore the guest of honour _must_ also be here, and they attack.

Thomas clears his throat, not wanting to waste any precious time, “Uh. Thanks for coming.”

“Thanks for having us,” Newt says, “I hope Liz didn’t twist your arm too much.”

“Huh? Oh, not at all, she was fine,” Thomas chances a look back over his shoulder, where Sonya is lurking at the edge of the living room. “And besides,” he grins, “I know how much of a baby you can be about your birthday.”

Newt pulls a face and rolls his eyes, and launches off, “I just don’t see what the bloody big deal is. It’s _one day_ – ” He takes a deep breath and holds his palms up, “but whatever, I’m making an effort this time. Mainly for Lizzy’s sake.”

Thomas nods, “New year, new you?”

Newt glares, no heat. He frowns suddenly, looking Thomas up and down, immediately leaving him feeling oddly naked, but then he laughs and says, “We match.”

Thomas startles and looks down. With a groan, he realises they’ve managed to orchestrate outfits telepathically, both sporting red and black. Thomas tugs at his sweater. It was the first thing that had poked out at him in his closet, but now he’s wishing he’d had even a sliver of forethought and picked something nicer. It’s old and has a couple holes in the sleeves that Thomas sometimes slips his thumbs through when he’s feeling fidgety. He tries not to do that now.

“You look good,” flies out of his mouth before he can stop it.

Surprise passes over Newt’s face, only for a moment before he grins, a bit shy and, Thomas fools himself into thinking, cheeks pink.

“Thanks. So do you.”

A shout is heard from the living room that startles them both and they jump, an obvious indication of nothing other than people have finally clued into Sonya’s presence, and have begun to approach.

Newt winces, “On second thought, any chance of sneaking out the back?”

Thomas shakes his head, a pang of disappointment filling his chest, “No dice. Everyone would see us leave through here and they’re blocking the other exit.”

“I’d settle for a window, honestly.”

“But it’s cold outside.”

Newt side-eyes him teasingly, “Christmas was last month, Tommy.”

Thomas settles for standing back and allowing all the guests to surround Newt, hugging and slapping and fist-bumping him with birthday wishes, and in a flurry of excitement that passes his eyes in nothing but a blur of motion, they’ve shuffled Newt into the next room and deposited him on a couch, Zart immediately pushing a drink in his hand.

When Thomas takes a moment and leans back against the door, watching Newt’s cheeks flush attractively over all the attention, he is reminded that, sometimes, being around Newt is as easy as breathing.

 

 

The evening passes laughably well. Everyone lounges around Thomas’ living room drinking, chatting, laughing and all around enjoying each other’s company. Thomas sits by Newt the whole time, idly aware of their thighs pressed together, and the strange little looks Newt keeps shooting him out of the corner of his eye, right after the room’s attention has shifted from Newt on to another point of interest.

Alby arrives an hour into the festivities, fashionably late and grumpy as always, scarf bundled against the chill, and Thomas certainly doesn’t miss the way Newt practically flies out of his seat to greet him. While he tries to focus on Frypan’s overly dramatized story that is already too far in for Thomas to ask for context, his attention retains to flitting back toward the hall, where Newt and Alby are having their own privet get-together.

It’s interesting to watch them, he thinks, how they act around the other vastly different to how they are separately – Alby is usually cold and indifferent to anyone besides Newt and, maybe, Minho on occasion (Alby looks at Thomas with ice in his eyes and cleverly disguised venom on his lips, and Thomas thinks Alby’s dreams spell the same things as Newt’s) and Newt, all teeth, soft laugh, eyes warm. Thomas feels a churning in his stomach and finds it hard to sit still, suddenly.

A saving grace is Winston very loudly and purposely announcing that he is hungry, and they collectively decide it is Cake Time. Minho and Thomas are to prepare the candles – which Newt will absolutely _love_ , of yes – leaving the rest to hover about the kitchen but, rounding the corner, Thomas quite nearly collides into Newt at the foot of the stairs.

Newt yelps in frightened surprise. He catches himself against Thomas’ elbow, a breathless laugh escaping him.

“Whoa! Sorry, mate,” he says, steadying both of them, and then Thomas sees the ghost of something still written on his face, flushed cheeks and hair messier than it had been not five minutes before, and as something unravels and clicks in Thomas’ mind, he thinks, _Oh_.

“’S okay.” Thomas pinches a brief smile back in return and shrugs away, suddenly not wanting to be touched. He asks, “Uh, where’s Alby?”

Newt hooks a thumb over his shoulder, “Bathroom. I was just showing him where it was.”

Thomas nods, feeling hot and awkward. Newt drops down  the final step and leans back against the bannister, that same strange look in his eye as from earlier, and Thomas can’t help but remember that last time they were in this position, weeks ago, Newt balanced on the stairs and Thomas leaning forward, Newt’s breath catching and his eyelashes tickling Thomas’ cheeks and he signed into the kiss.

“Um, well,” Thomas shakes himself, “We’re about to cut the cake in a few minutes, so.”

Newt blinks himself out his thoughts and frowns at Thomas questionably, “Cake?”

“Yeah,” Thomas raises an eyebrow, “You seriously didn’t think we weren’t going to get you a cake, did you?”

Newt looks away, “No? I mean I didn’t expect anything, Tommy, but …” Newt bites his lip, eyes narrowing, and Thomas grins. The prospect of cake is obviously too tempting. “Fine. What flavour?”

“Strawberry and vanilla.” Newt’s favourite. Thomas ignores the little spark in his chest when Newt’s eyes widen. He jokes, “And I know you love kiwi fruit because you’re weird but I don’t care, I was not about to ruin a perfectly good cake by adding that –”

“Wait, wait,” Newt holds two fingers up, stopping him, “You didn’t _bake_ this thing, did you?”

“Uh …”

Newt groans against the bannister, “ _Tommy_.”

“Listen, the pre-baked ones down at the supermarket taste like powder and dough, okay. Really, I’m doing everyone a favour, here.”

Newt pinches the bridge of his nose, “That isn’t – ”

“It didn’t take too long,” he lies. Newt begins to protest but Thomas cuts in, “It’s fine, Newt, I don’t mind doing this for you. I wanted to.”

Newt peeks an eye open and levels Thomas with a tired glare. He looks like he wants to go home. The upstairs bathroom door opens and closes, meaning Alby should be joining them soon and Thomas would very much like to be in the other room when he does.

Newt runs a hand through his hair and huffs, shaking his head. “You,” he says, reaching forward and threading his fingers through the sleeve of Thomas’ jumper, “are the most frustrating person I have ever met, Thomas.”

Thomas could laugh. Really, he could.

Newt is looming in his space, close enough that he can smell mint on his breath and, as if competing with some internal struggle, Newt says, “I appreciate the bloody cake. I just wish you didn’t.”

It occurs to him at that moment, trapped against the wall and ballet dancing on the edge of hysteria that Thomas never asked Newt what he wanted for his birthday.

As if Newt would accept anything more than a $3 card with some stupid pun on the inside, but still.

The creek at the top of the stair landing starts Thomas back to reality hard and he slips out and away from Newt, stating simply, “Alby’s back. Cake time,” and absolutely does not run.

 

 

In the kitchen, surrounding a now beautifully decorated cake full of candles that spell out something crude (Minho appears vastly too suspicious in his nonchalance) Newt takes one glance at the Defiantly Took A Lot Of Effort, You Liar cake and shoots Thomas a sharp look. Trailing in behind him Alby whistles, impressed.

Despite Newt’s protests – of which there had been many – Sonya was not about to take no for an answer and sat her brother down before the cake while everyone stood around and sang _Happy Birthday_ at the top of their gleeful and mildly inebriated lungs. From an outsiders point of view this whole scenario would appear as a cruel and unusual form of torture, and despite earlier Thomas finds himself struggling to contain his amusement as he watches Newt glare at the candle flames like he personally holds a vendetta toward them, features glowing in the light, and quietly sings along.

“Easy!” Brenda cries over the commotion when the lights are back on and Newt is stood with a knife in hand, ready to cut, in a teasing manner, “If you touch the bottom you gotta kiss the boy closest to you.”

There is a moment where Thomas, leant beside Newt against the island as he lines up, who has his tongue caught comically between his teeth in concentration and an innocent determination for equal portions, and is terribly distracted by the little crease at the bridge of Newt’s nose, straightens a bit too fast. The room coos and wolf-whistles respectfully. Thomas spots Minho roll his eyes at Teresa, pulling plates from the cabinet.

Newt clears his throat and cuts the cake, careful not to touch the bottom.

 

 

It is past midnight by the time everyone leaves. The heating had been turned down and the fireplace snuffed out hours ago – Wednesday’s chill simmering down into something warmer in preparation for Thursday. Now, guests remove jackets and roll up their sleeves as everyone sits down to watch Winston and Zart’s impromptu game of charades, where the references are so vague and confusing that Thomas thinks they just agree with whatever answer is last just so that their turn will be over. He, however, a few drinks into the night, admittedly, finds it all absolutely hilarious.

As does Newt, who either does not know how to play the game or is purposely ignoring the rules, has leant into Thomas during every round to whisper what he thinks the answer is into his ear, and Thomas counts the number of beers Newt has had every time he shuffles closer. He is desperately fighting to ignore the feeling of Newt pressed up against his side but it is very hard, growing in increasing difficulty as Newt slings an arm over the back of the couch, fingers pinching the fabric of Thomas’ t-shirt whenever he thinks he knows the answer. Warm breath on his neck and deep, honey sweet drawl in his ear.

He tries to keep as much distance as he can and a close eye on Alby, but that, too, is difficult.

The guesses climb in ridiculousness as the game goes on. As Winston hops around on one leg: “Jesus on a pogo stick.”

When Brenda stomps around in a circle with her legs bent and knees pointing outwards while everyone tears up laughing: “Two-legged horse. Definitely.”

When Chuck makes his arms limp and shrugs around the room: “Vegetarian zombie.”

As Minho mimes a sort of diving and swimming motion in thin air, there is an excited gasp and then, “Oh! Chlamydia!” and Thomas, previously hanging on by a very thin thread, finally cracks. He chokes on his drink and begins to cough, Newt’s shoulders quaking with silent laughter as Thomas swats and shushes him. A couple members of the group eye them knowingly. Thomas ignores them.

“Stop,” he hisses, fighting off the bubbling in his chest, Newt giggling into his shoulder.

“Okay, okay, sorry,” Newt murmurs, voice muffled.

Thomas rolls his eyes, “Sure you are.”

Newt hums and lifts his head. His cheeks are flushed and he is very, _very_ close. “Mmn, nah,” he says, “I’m not. I’m hilarious.”

“Oh, and ever so modest.”

Newt pokes him in the ribs, “I am. Admit it.”

Thomas purses his lips and pretends to think, “See, it’s not good to lie, Newt.”

Newt’s eyes widen in offence and he shoves at Thomas a bit too hard, and it sends him right into Harriet and Aris. Sonya, on the floor between their legs, eyes them a little too closely for Thomas’ liking. Newt winces and shoots them both an apologetic look, pulling Thomas back into place.

“Dickhead,” Newt whispers.

Thomas shakes his head, “Alright fine. Sorry.”

“Sure you are,” Newt mimics, eyes narrowed.

It is then that Thomas realises his hand is on Newt’s knee and Newt’s fingers are dipping under the collar of his shirt, and across the room the room he catches Alby, seated by Gally, looking at them. Minho, next over, is doing the same but making an effort not to appear so. He suddenly feels far too hot. 

Thomas shrugs out of Newt’s hold, and says, “Hey, uh, I think I’m going to get some air.”

As he is leaving he hears Aris say to Sonya, “You know, it’s getting late. I should probably head out ...” And by the time he has returned from the bathroom, having filled the sink with freezing cold water and stuck his face into it for thirty seconds until it woke itself the fuck up and out of whatever cloudy mess it had previously been in, everyone is grabbing their things and preparing to leave.

People say their goodbyes and file out at their own pace – by far the hardest to get to leave being Brenda and Minho, Brenda handing off Teresa’s shoulders and signing some show tune, very off key, and Minho is trying to convince Gally to dance with him.

“Okay,” Teresa grunts, supporting her girlfriend’s weight, “I think it’s time to call it.”

“Second,” Gally saddles up next to them, a protesting Minho under his arm, “Can we go now? I mean, no offence,” he says to Thomas and Newt, “this was great and all, and happy birthday, but like. Bye.”

Newt rolls his eyes, “See ya, Gally. Bye, Min. Get some rest.”

After Teresa says her goodbyes on behalf of the both of them, and Minho lifts Newt’s hand to plant a loud kiss on the back of it, they leave.

“Bloody hell,” Newt chuckles, leaning against the wall when the room is mostly silent and the few remaining guests still linger about, shaking his head in astonishment.

“They’ll be okay,” Thomas remarks, watching them clamber down the long driveway.

“They will, and Teresa will be fine. It’s Gally I’m worried about.”

Sonya and Harriet meet them, hand in hand. “Okay!” Sonya chirps, “This was great, Thomas, thanks so much for doing this.”

“Anytime,” He says, not completely sure if he means it _._

“You ready to go?” She asks her brother, who hesitates.

“Um,” Newt begins, eyes flitting from his sister to Thomas, and if he isn’t completely sure how to phrase whatever is in his brain, “Actually I think I’ll stay a little longer. If that’s alright?” The last bit he directs at Thomas.

Sonya’s smile faults, her eyebrows pinching together, “Isaac …” She begins.

Newt raises an eyebrow, “Elizabeth.”

After a tense beat of time that leaves Thomas and Harriet standing as bystanders, not knowing what to do, her smile returns, pretty and photo ready, as if it never left. She says, “Can I have a word.” And it isn’t a question. Thomas is left alone with Harriet, watching the two of them move into the next room for a privet talk. She offers no more than a polite smile and a parting wave before walking out the door to wait on the porch.

“Hey,” comes a voice to his left, and Thomas startles. He hadn’t realised that Alby was still here.

“Hi,” Thomas chirps, trying not to show his surprise.

“So, uh, listen,” Alby’s hands bury deep into his pockets while his elbows do a sort of flapping motion, and he looks like he doesn’t quite know where to begin, “I’m not going to do the whole _this was fun_ thing. But. Newt … enjoyed himself.” He looks toward where Newt and Lizzy are, their hushed voices carrying in through from the room, “I think. I _know_ he did. He’s a stubborn bastard sometimes.” Then he looks at Thomas, and Thomas swears he sees a glimmer of a smirk reflected in his eyes for a brief moment, “But so are you.”

“Um,” Thomas blinks, “What?”

“I’m just saying,” Alby says, “He’s going through something right now, but don’t let him get away with anything, okay?”

Right. Of course. Thomas takes a deep breath, and says, “Yeah. Okay, erm. Got it. I’ll back off. And it’s cool, by the way.”

Alby frowns, “Cool?”

Thomas can’t meet his eyes, “You and Newt. It’s fine – I don’t –”

“Wait, wait, wait,” he holds a hand up, cutting Thomas off before he can stick his foot any further into his mouth, “Me and Newt _what?_ ”

“You …” Thomas wags a finger between Alby and the living room, “You guys are –”

“ _Oh_ ,” Alby’s eyebrows shoot up so high Thomas half expects them to do a round trip over his scalp and back, “You think me and Newt – No, no.” He wheezes a laugh, “Nah, man. That’s not territory I want to creep into.”

Thomas frowns, “But I don’t –” He stutters, thinking of the stairs, the finger-ruffled hair and flushed cheeks all the _looks_ , “I don’t get it, you’ve been giving me death stares all night.”

“No.”

“What?” he tries not to bark but probably fails.

Alby sighs, “Not you.”

And as Alby is levelling him with this tired look, and in the background, Newt and Sonya’s voices fluctuate in volume, it hits Thomas like a ton of brinks that no one is trying to protect Newt from Thomas, but rather _Thomas from Newt_.

“Look anyway – you two, just. Sort your shit out, because it’s getting exhausting. Goodnight.”

And with that as a parting statement, he leaves Thomas standing alone in the mudroom, very confused, lightheaded, with his fingertips tingling as he were about to pass out. Newt is in the next room, talking to his sister.

Newt, whose lips still taste the same as he remembered, and chapped and dry because he’s always sucking on the bottom, who has been purposely flirting with him all night, finding every excuse under the grey sky to stick as close to Thomas as possible, who _isn’t_ dating Alby, who –

Wants to stay here tonight.

 

 

When Newt returns Thomas is about to tell him he’s planning on turning in early, but then Newt smiles, timid and cautious, and Thomas instantly wants nothing but to wrap up the moon in a pretty little bow and gift it to him in a box, to stay awake listening to the sound of his voice until the sun rises in the morning.

Sonya leaves with nothing but a forced smile and a stiff, two-fingered wave, a cigarette lighter clutched in her grip. The slam of the door is just a bit too harsh to be an accident. Newt says nothing of it, hands in pockets, leaning against a shelf nonchalantly.  

Thomas waves toward the entrance, “Everything okay?”

Newt hums, softly. “Oh,” he says, “Yeah, everything’s good.”

And then, lastly, the angel of good grace himself, Chuck materialises in the room, Teddy in tow.

“Hey,” He begins, “I’m gonna stay over at Teddy’s, is that cool?”

Thomas blinks in surprise. This proposal isn’t an irregular occurrence – if Chuck isn’t here he’s usually with his best friend – though despite this, maybe still reeling from the talk with Alby, he feels a little odd.

His unease must be written on his face, as Teddy smirks and pipes up, “Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn't stay up all night playing video games.” She says, her chestnut curls bouncing as she turns to shoot Chuck a smug look.

“What! You were also – ugh, fine, whatever. See you later.” Chuck scoops up his bag and stomps crankily outside with Teddy following, smirking. When Thomas turns back around he finds Newt staring at where they left, contemplative.

“What?”

“You don’t think they’re ...?” Newt raises his eyebrows in meaning, and something in Thomas instantly recoils.

“ _Christ_ , Newt, they're sixteen!”

Newt holds his palms up, “Yeah, I know! I’m just saying, what were you thinking about at sixteen?”

And.

Okay.

Thomas rubs at his face, “Not thinking about it, _not thinking about it._ Hungry?” He asks, changing the subject before he can start rehearsing talks in his head. Newt shakes his head in a _no_. “Okay. You wanna watch a movie or something? It’s your birthday, so whatever you want.”

Newt smirks, “My birthday finished an hour ago, Tommy.”

“Well, fine then, I’m going to steal more of your cake,” Thomas jokes, making to slip by Newt, who catches his shoulder in an instant and pulls him back, chuckling. Newt’s lips are bitten and Thomas can still smell the remnants of alcohol on his breath, however, he doesn’t look nearly as out of it as before. Now, Thomas finds it extremely difficult to look away from his mouth, thinking _you tasted like the peaches in my fridge that day we kissed and after you left I threw them all out because the smell was driving me absolutely insane,_ yet somehow – _some-god-damn-how_ – he manages.

Newt says, “Your pool still works, right?”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, clearing his throat of an embarrassing squeak, “Yeah?”

Newt says, “There is something I want to do,” and allows his hand to trace down the length of Thomas’ arm, lacing around his fingers, and this is how Thomas finds himself unlocking the pool room and pushing open the wide French doors to let them inside not a minute later.

Newt, two steps into the room, instantly closes his eyes and moans, “Oh, I missed this. I love the smell of this room.”

“Chlorine?”

Newt sticks a finger in Thomas’ face, “Don’t judge me. The one thing this glorified hellscape doesn’t have is a decent bloody swimming pool.” 

Thomas huffs a laugh, setting to work at turning on all the lights. “What about your puddle?” he says, visualising the hole-in-the-ground lake beside Newt and Lizzy’s trailer.

“My _puddle_ , you twat, is disease riddled and smells like dead animals. Except on Sundays.”

Thomas halts, hand halfway to the light switch, “What? Why then?”

“Do I look like I have a clue? Why does anything, anything? And I’m the only one allowed to make fun of it, by the way,” he adds, pointedly, hands on hips.

“Right, yes, of course. I am _so_ sorry.”

“Good that, you should be – Uh … Tommy?” Newt stops, suddenly, his voice trailing off and tone swerving to _confused,_ and Thomas looks over.

And, in a cardiac-arrest inducing moment of pure terror and mortification so strong it creates a parallax and slaps three or four Other Thomas’ in the face, he sees Newt holding the doll. _The fucking blow up doll._

“So,” Newt begins, holding the thing around the waist, looking between It and Thomas in hilarious astonishment, while Thomas makes a mental note to murder Brenda the next time he sees her, “Is there, um. Is there something I should know, Thomas?”

His lips are twitching like he is trying to keep the roaring laugh inside of him, and Thomas wants to die.

“That’s not –” he begins, chokes, starts over, “It isn’t what you think. That isn’t mine.”

Newt raises an eyebrow, “Uh huh.”

Thomas groans, “I’m _serious_. Brenda brought that thing over as a joke tonight and I stuck it in here.”

Newt barks a delighted laugh, holding It out at arm’s length, “Oh! So it’s for me? Well, I have to say –” he considers the doll, and says, “she has a keen eye for detail.”

He flicks a certain appendage poking out from beneath a very small strap of cloth, and nearly doubles over at the look on Thomas’ face. Newt’s laughter echoes around the room at maximum capacity and Thomas really can’t find it in him to be mad, in the end.

“Okay, okay,” Thomas says between giggles – Newt’s, that is – and reaches forward, “That’s enough. Can we please get rid of that thing, already?”

Newt snatches the doll out of Thomas’ reach, “No, no! I think we should name him, don’t you?”

“No, Newt.”

“I’m thinking Timothy? No – Patrick!”

Thomas has his hands on the doll now, attempting to tug it out of Newt’s vice-like grip, “We are not naming that thing! Look at it, it’s terrifying!”

Newt gasps in offence, “How rude of you! Patrick, he doesn’t mean it.”

Thomas groans and tugs harder, “Alright, you’ve had your fun. Seriously, it’s giving me the creeps.”

“Tommy –”

There is a moment, when Thomas is tugging It one way and Newt it tugging It the other, where something pops very loudly, amplified by the room itself, and the doll is one moment in their grip and flying around the room the next, a horrible high pitched noise accompanying it.

Newt yelps and jumps in fright and Thomas screams and Newt ends up in his arms, both of them breathless with laughter. They look up when the noise stops, gasping and hearts hammering, to see the remains of Patrick floating in the water, and start up again. Tears well in the corners of Thomas’ eyes as he covers his mouth in an attempt to stifle his laughter, holding on to Newt’s shoulders helplessly while Newt crows into his neck with arms wrapped tight around Thomas’ waist.

“Bloody hell,” Newt gasps, sniffling.

“I think I just had a heart attack. Oh my god,” Thomas cries.

Newt chances a look back towards the pool and collapses again, and it is at this point in time that Thomas realises his free hand is tangled up in Newt’s hair.  

“Get rid of it, Tommy,” Newt wails, “Please, I can’t look at it.”

Thomas leaves him against the wall wiping tears from his eyes and journeys the short distance to the pool. The doll, or whatever’s left of it, has floated out far enough that Thomas needs to resort to the pool scoop to fish it out. When it’s successfully out of the water, Thomas notions for Newt to grab a bag, and when he sees the only part of it still inflated, remarks,

“Well. At least it’s reliable.”

And Thomas kicks the bag into some nondescript corner before it can all start up again. Once they’ve calmed down the room is silent again apart from the low thrum of the pool filter buzzing, and Thomas clears his throat, raw from all the hysteria.

Newt dawdles over to the edge of the pool, kicking his shoes off along the way, and sits. His hand dips into the clear blue water, tracing shapes along the ripples, and Thomas busies himself folding some towels that had been carelessly left to soak into the love seats from the last time someone was in here.

Newt’s voice wavers over to him, “Is it alright if I hop in?”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah sure. No problem, let me just grab some spare trunks.”

“Nah, it’s okay.”

Thomas turns around, and _Jesus on a fucking pogo stick_ , Newt is taking his clothes off. He’s rid of his shirt and belt by the time he notices Thomas staring, and grins.

“Is this alright?” He asks.

Thomas swallows, “Yeah, fine.”

Newt leaves his boxers on, and Thomas doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed and elegantly swan dives into the water, because of course he does. He surfaces moments later with a splash, spitting water out of his mouth like a fountain. His hair sticks flat to his head, which he quickly pushes back.

“You comin’ in?”

Thomas shuffles, unsure, “Uh …”

“Come on,” Newt’s eyes are narrowed and his smile is beckoning. He dips low so that that water stops just under his eyes, twinkling with mischief, it reflecting across his skin in a rippling, ghostly silver, and Thomas is weak. He strips down fast, hyper-aware of Newt’s presence in the room, but when he is done he finds Newt floating upward on his back, calm and serene. Thomas slides in with less finesse than Newt had done.

“Do you ever miss something you never had?” Newt asks the ceiling.

Thomas treads slowly in the water, watching the waves sway and undulate around his body. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Like … Like I don’t think I’ve ever been in water that much my whole life, but I miss it. Hockey was different, that was ice, but this –” Newt waves his arms in the water, slowly spinning himself in a circle, “This is something else.”

Newt continues, “Some of the others swam. I know this is why.”

Thomas nods. He hadn’t realised how close he and Newt had gotten to each other until he feels Newt’s hand on his shoulder, steadying, as he rights himself up.

“Tommy … Do you want to know why I don’t like my birthday? The actual reason?”

Thomas stares at him in surprise before nodding his head.

A little crease forms in the centre of Newt’s forehead, right above his nose, as he says, “Because it doesn’t feel right. Never has. It’s like the date belongs to someone else and not me.”

Thomas takes a moment to process this information, and then asks, “Is there a day that does feel right?”

Newt shrugs, “Don’t know. I haven’t found it yet. I’ll let you know when I do.” Their gazes meet. Thomas is hyper-aware of the inches of negative space between their bodies, how goosebumps rise on Newt’s skin where he is exposed to open air, how chapped his lips are, long eyelashes sticking upward in points, and suddenly, before Thomas’ thoughts can spiral into injudicious territory, Newt is tilting his head and remarking, “Scared to get your hair wet, Tommy?”

“What?”

“You’re still dry from the chest up,” Newt smirks.

“Oh, right, I –”

He receives a bound of water in the face that leaves him spluttering and coughing, blinking rapidly against the shock. Newt is beaming at him, ingeniously.

“Hey!”

“Fixed it.” 

And it begins. They splash water into each other’s faces mercilessly, yelling and coughing and laughing until the water dries their eyes and the chlorine leaves their mouths tasting awful, but neither of them cares. At once point, Thomas is pushing on Newt’s shoulders to dunk him beneath the surface, and the next Newt is on Thomas’ back doing the same. Newt is calling Thomas every name under the sun behind spluttering and helpless giggling and Thomas is insulting his hair and his eyebrows, and when they’re both soaked and breathless Newt takes Thomas’ wrists in both his hands and kisses him.

It is not a slow kiss in the slightest, though it may have had the initial intention to be so. The second their lips touched it was like an explosion behind their eyelids, like near to an entire year of repression and anger and nothingness has all lead up to this, and Newt is tugging at Thomas’ hair, hard, and Thomas’ fingers dig into Newt’s shoulders, his back, his hips, hard enough the bruise, tugging him closer.

“Are you –” Thomas pants.

Newt answers in between hungry kisses, “Yeah, I am. I am. I am, Tommy, _shit_.”

It isn’t exactly perfect. They’re too out of breath to really do it properly – more biting lips than anything – and they both taste like chlorine. Thomas hadn’t noticed how close they’ve gotten to the edge of the pool until he feels the cold tile press against his bare back, and in a way, it is the grounding force that he needed. He pushes at Newt lightly to put some distance between their bodies. Newt makes a small noise in the back of his throat that renders Thomas’ knees weak and he nearly forgets his name, and a minute later they’ve calmed, hearts slowed to a, not quite normal, beat, but better, and Thomas cups Newt’s jaw in his hands and kisses him properly.

Newt is just whispering his name over and over, and then he’s saying, “You looked so good tonight, I couldn’t –” he mouths and nips at Thomas’ jaw before returning to his mouth, “And then I saw that fucking cake that looked like it took _ages_ and I just wanted you so bad.”

Thomas’ heart lurches into his throat. “Yeah?” he whimpers embarrassingly.

Newt nods against his neck, “Uh huh. Wanted to tell everyone to piss off home and just –”

Thomas is laughing, a little too high, very dizzy, and Newt is brushing against Thomas’ leg and they both gasp. They stop, frozen with their faces centimetres apart, flushed and panting, Newt’s irises like rings and his lips red and swollen.

“Do you,” Newt is saying, “Do you,” pushing Thomas further against the rim of the pool, “Do you –” and when he touches him Thomas nearly jumps out of his skin. He is attempting to push Thomas up and on the edge of the pool, fingertips ticking the top of Thomas’ shorts, and he is kissing downward and Thomas’ head is spiralling and all of a sudden the French doors are creaking open and a voice calls out,

“Hey, Thomas, did you see where I left my phone, I can’t find –”

There is shouting, a lot of it, as Chuck yells in horror and Thomas is yelling something he doesn’t understand and Newt is reeling back in shock and mortification while simultaneously trying to hide behind Thomas.

Chuck says something rushed and jumbled but akin to, “It’s okay I’ll find it tomorrow bye!” and leaves from where he came, one of the doors slamming shut in his wake and echoing through Thomas’ brain.

Newt is groaning behind his hands, swearing ( _Oh my god. Bloody hell!_ ) and Thomas’ forehead digs into the tiled rim of the pool as anxiety swirls and dances itself into every single crevasse of his body. He realises that he is shaking when Newt says, “Well, can cross _scarring someone for life_ off the bucket list, now,” and when, a minute later, he feels Newt gently press his chest against Thomas’ back, hands feather-light on his hips, questioning, he suddenly cannot breathe in this anymore.

He slinks out of Newt’s grasp, to pull himself up and out. He sits there a moment, gathering his bearings, trying not to think about what just happened – any of it – says, “It’s pretty late. We should turn in.”

Newt’s jaw twitches like he is about to protest but eventually nods to the far wall, eyes flittering about and unable to meet Thomas’ gaze. He leaves Newt with white fists and guilt in his eyes and walks away sober and miserable.

 

 

Thomas showers. He spends most of it with his forehead pressed against the cold glass. The water catches in his eyelashes and stings his eyes, beating against his back, too cold to be comfortable. It falls in rivets down his body, washing his emotions down the drain and leaving him with dull apathy simmering in his chest.

Newt is waiting out in the hall when he leaves the bathroom, fidgeting with his shirt sleeve. The light from the bathroom falls over him, casting a cookie-cutter form in a rectangle on the wall behind him. Newt opens his mouth to say something but Thomas cuts in before he can get the chance.

“You can go in now,” Thomas hooks a thumb dispassionately over his shoulder, “I left clean towels by the sink and some clothes for you to change into.”

Newt blinks in confusion. “You don’t want me to go?”

Thomas shakes his head, glancing at the hallway clock, just realising how tired he is, “It’s nearly 2 am, what’s the point? Just stay here tonight.”

Newt’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something else, and Thomas waits. In the end he just sighs, softly, and walks pact Thomas to enter the bathroom.

 

 

On the ceiling of Thomas’s bedroom are dozens of glow in the dark stars in the shape of both the big and little dipper, left over from when he and Teresa had gotten particularly creative in childhood. He stares at them as he lies flat on his back, arms spread out beside him. It is strange, he thinks, how your body can feel so exhausted and yet the mind could be wide awake.

Newt reappears in the doorway sometime later, looking fresh and clutching one of the towels Thomas had given him like a safety blanket. He has on only the old, faded t-shirt Thomas lent him, and he remembers now that Newt tends to overheat when he is sleeping and rarely goes to bed with pants on.

They do nothing but stare at one another silently, awkward, but neither willing to break the spell. Newt’s ankles are skinny and delicate when his legs are bare; breakable. His feet point and un-point, toes curl and uncurl.

“Um,” Newt clears his throat and pushes hair behind his ear, fluffy from the towel, “Thanks for lending me these. I’ll, erm. I’ll be downstairs. G’night.”

“Wait!” Thomas sits up, maybe a little too fast, fireflies of light spinning before his eyes, “You’re not sleeping on the couch.”

Newt stills. “I don’t mind,” he says.

“It’s not comfortable,” Thomas lies, “You can stay here.”

Newt hesitates, unsure, as if Thomas’ bedroom is a minefield and one false move would spell catastrophe. Thomas says, “Chuck would kill you if you slept in his bed without permission, anyway.”

 _Especially after tonight,_ he doesn’t say.

 _And the only other bedroom in the house is off limits_ , he also doesn’t say, but he is sure from the look in his eye that Newt hears it loud a clear.

Thomas pulls back the covers and settles comfortably beneath the sheets. Newt closes door but does not shut it, as Thomas rarely sleeps with his bedroom door all the way shut (for various reasons, some being a) Chuck sometimes joins him in the middle of the night, though these occurrences are becoming less and less b) he feels like the air in the room is being cut off if he doesn’t despite the open window c) he liked to be awakened by his mother’s alarm every morning, too lazy and too much of a light sleeper to set his own) and the fact that Newt knows this and takes it in to consideration burns something in his chest.

He does not come to bed right away, though, loitering by the desk. Usually, by now, Thomas would be preparing himself for what is about to happen, but it has been so long and he is so tired.

“I just –” Newt pinches the bridge of his nose, steadying himself against the swivel chair, “I don’t understand, Thomas. Why do you like me? I’m horrible to you.”  

Thomas nervously eyes the first drawer. “No you’re not,” he says.

“Yes I am,” Newt responds, annoyed, “I’ve treated you like shit.”

“That’s –” Thomas sighs and collapses back against the bed. “I can’t talk about this right now. Can we just go to sleep for now? Please?”

He must sound particularly desperate and pathetic because Newt says nothing more. He climbs into bed after more hesitation, and then they are both lying on their backs, staring up at the ceiling, six inches of nothing between them. When time passes, and Newt shows no signs of having fallen asleep, and Thomas’ mind is brewing, and neither of them has moved, Thomas speaks.

“I was trying,” he begins, slowly, “very hard not to be angry. For the longest time. At you, at this town, at myself ... And then, after a while, I realised that I wasn’t mad. Just tired. I’m sick of all this, and. And I’m not saying that I’m not scared, Newt, because I am. To be completely honest, I’m terrified of letting you back in.”

Beside him, Newt flinches.

Thomas rolls over to look at him. Newt does not move. He says, “But more so, I’m scared of what might happen if I don’t. I …” He takes a deep breath, “I miss you.”

Even in the darkness, he can tell that Newt’s fists are clenched at his sides and he is blinking rapidly as he says, “I miss you too, Tommy. I’ve been trying –” Newt’s voice cracks, “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to tell you how sorry I am. But there aren’t any words to explain how fucked up what I did to you was. And how sorry I am for all of it.”

“And I’m scared,” he continues, “that I’ll do it again. I don’t trust myself, Thomas, so how the hell can I expect you to?”

“You won’t do it again.”

Newt finally meets his eyes, “How do you know that? Everyone else expects me to – No, yes, they do, Tommy.”

“Okay,” Thomas slips his hand under the pillow, “Okay.” 

Newt frowns, “Okay what?”

“Okay, I’m willing to take that chance,” Thomas shushes Newt when he attempts to cut in, “I forgive you, Newt, and I think it’s about time you forgive yourself.”

Sometimes, Thomas still falls asleep and sees _it._ But when he wakes, afraid and shivering in a cold sweat, tears leaking down his cheeks, clothes sticking to his body, he remembers that Newt is an eight-minute-forty-seven-second run down the road and that he is safe and warm and alive in his own bed. That in a few hours he will wake to the horribly masochistic alarm Minho had set for him years ago, that he for some reason still keeps, shower, make breakfast, bicker with his sister, and go about his day.

And Thomas will do the same.

He watches as a tear slips from the corner of Newt’s eye and disappear into his hair.

He knows that Newt is waiting for him to make the first move – this is how it will probably be for a long time – so Thomas reaches out to take Newt’s hand in the dark, his pinkie sliding over rough knuckles, and curling around Newt’s own. It takes a second but eventually Newt turns his palm over to interlock their fingers properly.

“C’mere,” Thomas whispers, tugging gently.

“Huh?”

“Come here.”

When they are lying side by side, their faces inches apart, Thomas’ hand on Newt’s hip and Newt’s gripping the front of Thomas’ shirt as if he’s afraid he will leave; when Newt is shakily breathing through his nose like he is desperately holding back a sob as they kiss, Thomas decides he needs to hear him say it.

“Y’know,” Thomas whispers against Newt’s lips (Newt’s leg hooking over his hip, the other slipping between Thomas’s thighs), “I never asked you what you wanted for your birthday.”

Newt huffs a laugh into his mouth. He tastes like Thomas’ toothpaste, and this sends a shock of electricity through his body all the way down his spine to his toes.

Newt breathes, shakily, “You.”

They kiss until they fall asleep; Newt’s hands under Thomas’ shirt, Thomas’ hands in Newt’s hair, Newt’s eyelashes ticking his collarbone, Thomas’ nose pressed into his shoulder, inhaling a combination of chlorine, his laundry detergent and something else so _Newt_ that it just makes his heart clench.

He thinks, _finally_.

 

 

Newt had once told him that he won’t ever have him back, not like he had him before, and Thomas believed him. It would be impossible now, after everything that has happened, after everything they’ve been through, to go back to what they were before.

You could destroy a city in a day, but it will take a very long time to reconstruct. And then, when it is done, it will be stronger and better than it had ever been before.

And, well. Thomas is willing to put in the time.

 

 

 *

**Author's Note:**

> Brownie points go to whoever can find the obscure 250 joke at the beginning of this.
> 
> Come yell with me on [tumblr](http://singt0me.tumblr.com/) here.


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